


Even if it Means Oblivion

by CallicoKitten



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Asexuality, Child Abuse, Daemons, Kidnapping, Multi, but this is actually a serious fic full of serious things, dont be fooled, mycroft sighs a lot, shits going down and our boys and girls have to save the world, spies doing spy stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:52:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Children are going missing, children from all walks of life, from all over Britain and none of them are ever found; there are rumours of ghosts in the North and the Witches are whispering of dark things to come. These are all things noticed by Sherlock Holmes and he’s not about to let them go unheeded, no matter how much Mycroft tries to dissuade him. .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have a vague idea of where this is going but really this is just the result of procrastination and my need to DAEMON FIC ALL THE THINGS.
> 
> yee ~
> 
> If you don't watch Spooks but want to read along anyway I'll be happy to copy and paste the character guide i wrote for my spooks/skyfall fic and if you haven't read HDM and you get confused about any of the things just drop me a comment (or i could also do a guide for that?)
> 
> um. um. i think that's it?
> 
> daemon notes (just for those in this part) at the end.
> 
> title is from a quote from the Amber Spyglass
> 
> a few daemon things (if you haven't read my other skyfall or sherlock daemon fics - which you don't need to) it's my headcanon that spies and soldiers are sometimes seperated from their daemons (lengthening their bonds) for obvious reasons :3

Sherlock’s daemon trotted before him as a wild cat as they crept down the darkened corridors of Holmes Manor. The house around him was silent as it should be; Mycroft was in the kitchens as usual, their esteemed guest was in Oxford for the day and mother was still at the London house. They wouldn’t get caught, of that Sherlock was sure.

His daemon paused a few feet away from him, tail twitching. “What room was father staying in again?”

“The blue room,” Sherlock hissed back. “At the end of the corridor.”

Briccrui nodded and padded up to the door, pressing his tiny ear against it. “You sure he’s out?” He asked loudly.

“Hush, Bric!” Sherlock hissed, “Someone will hear!”

“Oh, like who? Father’s out you said and everyone else is downstairs.”

Sherlock inclined his head, “Just because they’re downstairs right now doesn’t mean they’ll stay there. Mycroft’s room is on this floor.”

Briccrui huffed, “ **Mycroft**? Mycroft is a fat dull bore and is far too absorbed in the cake Ellen is making to pay attention to us.”

Sherlock sniggered, “All the same Bric, someone will hear. And I don’t want to be grounded again!”

Briccrui grinned and flickered in to a squirrel monkey, swinging himself up onto Sherlock’s shoulder. “No one will hear,” he insisted and as if to prove his point he leapt up into the air as a hornbill and yelled, “MYCROFT HOLMES IS A FAT DULL BORE!”

And Sherlock fell against the door, barely stifling his laughter, “Bric!”

“Is he now?” Came a stern voice from behind them.

Sherlock froze and turned to gaze fearfully down the corridor. Siger Holmes stood watching them, his steely gaze fixed on Briccrui who fluttered immediately back to Sherlock’s shoulder as a kingfisher. His father’s daemon, a dark harpy eagle clacked her beak and turned her cold yellow gaze on to Sherlock. They cut an intimidating figure, his father and the eagle; Siger Holmes was the tallest man Sherlock had ever met. His jet black hair was scraped back severely and his eyes were cold colour of slate that studied them with something akin to amusement.

“And what is it you are doing, Sherlock?” a wry smile played across his father’s lips and for some reason Sherlock shuddered.

He licked his dry lips and met his father’s gaze steadily, “Just coming to say hello.” It was a believable enough lie. His father hadn’t been in England since Sherlock was five, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to believe Sherlock had forgotten his father’s rules against going into the room he was staying in.

His father quirked an eyebrow, “Were you indeed?”

“Yes sir.”

Siger took a few steps towards him, “You’re tall for a boy of seven,” he said, eyeing Sherlock up. “You look remarkably like your grandfather – has anyone ever told you that?”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes sir.”

“Now you brother,” his father continued, “He gets his looks from your mother’s side of the family, but you, you are a Holmes through and through…”

Sherlock tried not to wriggle under his father’s intense gaze and on his shoulder Briccrui changed into a dormouse, digging his tiny claws into Sherlock’s skin. “I don’t like this,” he whispered and Sherlock agreed. His brother had long told him tales of their father’s intimidating nature. Their parents had split up before Sherlock was born, Mycroft had been seven, Sherlock’s age; he’d told Sherlock about how they used to argue, how terrifying their father could be. Sherlock had always dismissed it as a childish attempt at intimidation but now he wasn’t so sure.

“No sign of him settling yet then?”

Sherlock frowned and Briccrui hissed, “We’re only seven!”

“No, sir,” Sherlock answered gruffly still meeting his father’s gaze and the harpy eagle tutted on his father’s shoulder as though she were disappointed. His father muttered something to his daemon, too quiet for Sherlock to hear.

“He seems to prefer smaller forms,” his father noted and Sherlock felt Briccrui’s wave of anger. He sprang off Sherlock’s shoulder and landed as wolf, “I do not!” he protested indignantly, meeting the eagles gaze with a low snarl.

The harpy eagle gave a harsh caw of laughter and his father smirked. “You’ve certainly got more spirit than your brother, I’ll give you that.”

Briccrui leant against Sherlock’s side as his father continued to appraise them. He felt like a lab specimen, pinned to a cold metal board as a scientist decided where to make the first incision. “I still don’t like this,” Bric murmured. “She’s scaring me.”

The eagle was staring and Sherlock swallowed, brushing a hand across Briccrui’s back. His father was stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“Sherlock,” Bric whined softly. “Make her **stop**.” It was a move that wasn’t lost on his father and the man smirked knowingly. Briccrui took a few steps back.

“Tell me Sherlock,” his father began but he was cut off by the abrupt arrival of Mycroft.

“Sherlock!” And Sherlock had never been so glad to hear his brother’s voice. “Suppers ready.” Both Sherlock and Siger turned towards Mycroft. “Were you bothering father?” he asked, jaw set, one hand in Asta’s ruff.

Siger shook his head, “Of course he wasn’t, my boy. We were just having a nice chat, weren’t we, Sherlock?”

Sherlock hurriedly and walked as quickly as he could towards his brother. Mycroft seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as Sherlock reached him and he released his grip on Asta. “Will you be joining us for dinner, Father?”

“No,” Siger said stiffly. “I shall take it in my room; inform the servant, if you will.”

Mycroft nodded, “Come on, Sherlock.” He murmured, guiding Sherlock away with a firm hand at the small of Sherlock’s back.

 

______________________

**Harry Pearce: Bexley Industrial Park, East London.**

 

Medeia’s ears prick as the other car pulls up. “He’s in there, Harry,” she whispers. “I can tell.” Harry nods once and glances at the Russian agent cuffed in the back, “If this is a set up I will personally pull every one of your daemon’s feathers out.” He warns.

The prisoner blanches and his crow daemon flutters her wings nervously. “It isn’t.” The prisoner assures him. Harry shares a look with Medeia before getting out of the car. Ben yanks the prisoner out behind him as the other car rolls to a stop, Harry takes a breath. _If this is an ambush…_

Medeia noses at his hand, _it’s not,_ she thinks back calmly. _It’ll be a smooth exchange. We’ll have Lucas back and favour with the Russians for a bit for minimal losses on our side._

Harry sighs. It all sounds a bit too good to be true.

At his side Medeia huffs, “You’re far too pessimistic.”

The Russians get out of their car pulling a prisoner with them, face covered with a dark hood. He feels Medeia tremble with excitement beside him. They yank off the hood and Lucas blinks dazedly at them; he’s pale, too pale, and too thin but it’s _him_ and he’s alive. But he’s alone and Harry barely represses a shudder as he walks to meet them. “Where’s his daemon?” he asks steadily.

Kachimov grins lazily, “Not part of the agreement.” He singsongs and his daemon, a mangy cat titters. “The file first.”

The file.

_The file._

It’s burning a hole in his jacket pocket, he shouldn’t be giving it away even if he does have permission of a sorts. Eyes only, highly classified and old. So old Harry isn’t entirely sure how anyone outside of the highest ranking in British intelligence knows about it. They’d blacked out all the important details; the names, the places, the dates, the why’s. It’s barely a skeleton file now, containing only the slightest details and bare bones of a study.

An old irrelevant file and a Russian prisoner for a good agent who’s been imprisoned for far too long. It’s a good deal even if Harry’s stomach turns at the thought of _that_ file being in the hands of the Russians.

He nods and Kachimov gives Lucas a push sending him stumbling towards them. He reaches them swaying slightly and offers them a ghost of a smile, “Hello Harry.” Harry can hear the mix of emotions in Lucas’ voice as easily as his damned dog daemon can but that’s not something he can deal with right now.

“The _file_ ,” the Russian repeats.

Lucas shoots them a quizzical gaze but he looks too exhausted to ask and at a nod from Harry Ben shepherds him into the car anyway. A growl builds in Medeia’s throat as they reach Kachimov. “Welcome to London, Arkady,” Harry says coolly, handing him the file. “Of course you’ll be working hard to replace the agent we’re sending home.”

Kachimov smirks and flicks through the file, turning to bark something at his subordinate before turning back to Harry, “Isn’t that the dance?”

Another car pulls up behind them.

“You look after Lucas now he is home,” Kachimov grins again as two men climb out of the other car, opening one of the back doors. “He is weak and tired. You tell him to eat properly.”

Medeia snarls at that and Kachimov’s rangy cat sniggers. “You may want to keep better control of your daemon, Harry. People may get offended.”

Harry sets his jaw.

A ragged bundle of grey fur and bones stumbles out of the car behind Kachimov, fur matted and scarred. She’d been a wolf once, powerful and deadly, now she looks no stronger than a pup. She limps towards them on unsteady legs. He swallows and Kachimov chuckles, “When you sent Lucas to Moscow he paid an appalling price. You may want to make assurances that it does not happen again.”

Harry smirks at that, veiled threats he can do. “Is this a message, Arkady, or a homily?”

The Russian chuckles, “I am merely making conversation like an Englishman!” He pockets the file. “I suppose you won’t tell me anything about what you intend to do with that?” Harry asks as Lucas’ daemon reaches them.

Kachimov grins and taps his nose, “Nyet. But rest assured you have made me a rich man, Mr Pearce. You have my undying gratitude.” And with that he turns on his heel and strides back to his car.

Medeia touches noses with Lucas’ daemon as she reaches them and Harry gets a dull flash of _homehomehome_. They walk back to car in silence and the wolf limps after them. Ben is already at the wheel when Harry clambers in, pausing to open the door for Lucas’ daemon.

They share a look when the wolf climbs into the backseat to settle beside him but they don’t speak, they don’t touch. Lucas turns and leans his head against the window as the car rumbles to life and his daemon lets herself fall into a restless sleep.

Harry’s heart sinks.

 

______________________

**Three months later:**

**Mycroft Holmes: Undisclosed location, London.**

 

“I still don’t understand why you agreed to meet him,” Asta growls at his feet and Mycroft rolls his eyes, “Yes, you do.”

“Oh, _yes_ because he helps out our dear brother on occasion. That doesn’t mean he has anything worthy of _our_ attention. We should be working on the Silva situation.”

Mycroft chuckles, “On the contrary, my dear, it means in all likelihood he does. Sherlock doesn’t like dull people.”

“We still have better things to be getting on with,” she huffs, standing as the sound of a car pulling up outside the factory alerts them to Lestrade’s arrival. “This better be worth it,” she yawns as she stalks off into the shadows.

He stands as the Inspector shuffles awkwardly in, silver fox daemon trotting a few paces ahead of him. Mycroft knows everything there is to know about Gregory Lestrade and his daemon; settled when he was fourteen, daemon named Nidia for his grandfather’s, joined the police force at eighteen, married at twenty-two, divorced at fourty-three, five children, shared custody. An unremarkable story for an unremarkable man.

“Inspector,” Mycroft greets cheerily as the man stops a few paces away from him.

“Mr Holmes,” Lestrade nods. He’s fidgeting slightly and Mycroft smirks inwardly; it’s always interested him just how uncomfortable he can make people. Lestrade’s little daemon though is sitting perfectly still, staring up at Mycroft openly.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Lestrade clears his throat, glances down at his daemon who nods and steps forward, pulling out a manila envelope. “I was hoping you could give me some insight into a case.”

Mycroft’s smile falters and he hears his daemon’s laughter in his head. “You want me to _consult_ on a _case_?” He almost spits.

“I know, I know,” Lestrade says quickly, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “But this is different. Besides, you still owe me for the Hound thing.”

Mycroft sighs and glances at the file. Three missing children from the London area, four from other cities, all between the ages of nine and thirteen. Nothing to connect them – different backgrounds, genders, races, no shared characteristics apart from their unsettled daemons. One looks like an open and shut case of domestic violence turning fatal, two are parental abductions, three runaways, one a potential stranger abduction but nothing interesting. He snaps the file shut and hands it back.

“I see nothing out of the ordinary.”

Lestrade sighs, “I didn’t either but then I looked closer. There are seven more cases like that all in the last year, kids going missing in open and shut cases. But that’s the thing: they’re all too neat.”

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow, “A policeman complaining about the simplicity of his cases? Sherlock must be rubbing off on you.” That raises a chuckle from the fox daemon but Lestrade only sighs again.

“You must see it,” he insists, flicking the file open to one of the cases. A boy of twelve. “Here, Wes Carter, see? Everything is too neat. He’s an orphan, lives with his grandparents so he runs away, simple right? Except he was used to his parents absence and he spent a lot of time with his grandparents anyway, he had a great relationship with them. Besides there was no indication from anyone else – teachers, friends, councillor – that he’d run away.”

“He had just lost his parents, Inspector, no matter how used he was to their absence.” Mycroft said stiffly.

“Yes but _look_ at the evidence, really look. The Missing Persons division dismissed this case way too easily. Cases aren’t meant to be this neat.”

Mycroft has to admit there is something eerie about the neat little lists of evidence that accompanies each case’s verdict. “I assume you have more than just this?”

With a relieved smile Lestrade nods, “When I noticed the pattern I started digging through old case files to see if this was an ongoing thing, you know? I found hundreds. Every twenty years or so there’s a rise in missing children’s cases, lasts for a few months or so and then things go back to normal. Usually around fifteen kids go missing, all kept quiet and none of them are ever found. It goes back to the days of the Magisterium. To the Gobblers.”

At those words Mycroft’s stomach plummets. He knows all too well what the Magisterium had been doing to children. To the public the Gobblers were just a scary story, a playground rumour but they were so much more than that. But surely, no one would dare to repeat those experiments? And surely if they had Mycroft would know.

 _It wouldn’t be the first time the government tried to keep something from us,_ Asta mutters.

Mycroft clears his throat and slides his calm facade back into place. “Come now, Inspector, you can’t be seriously telling me that you of all people have started to believe in such nonsense? The Gobblers are just a children’s story.”

“I thought they were just stories too,” Lestrade mutters, “but just because police records weren’t as thorough in those days doesn’t mean they were nonexistent. There’s records of hundreds of kids going missing only they were street orphans and gyptians. No one really paid attention to it.”

“It was not uncommon in those days for children to go missing, Inspector.”

Lestrade looks like he’s about to argue but his daemon pipes up, “Show him the other file, Greg! He’ll have to believe us then!”

Mycroft’s interest is piqued when Lestrade fidgets a few moments before handing the file over. He freezes though when he catches site of the file’s code printed across the top of the first page. In the shadows around them Asta growls. “And how did you come across this, Detective Inspector?” he asks coolly. Most of the details have been blacked out but that doesn’t make this any less serious. He knows the content of this file off by heart. “This is highly classified information, you could be killed just for reading this, you know.”

Lestrade doesn’t flinch. “We found it buried with a stiff in Hackney, Alexei Varonsky. No one else read it, I made sure of that.”

 _Alexei Varonsky, one of Kachimov’s lackeys. Interesting,_ Asta rumbles.

Mycroft snaps the file shut. Someone is going to burn for this. “Why come to me and not my brother?” Then he snorts when Lestrade twitches inelegantly. “Oh, you did. Of course you did. And he turned you down, I presume?”

Lestrade rubs the back of his neck, smiling wryly, “He said government conspiracies were more your neck of the woods.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, “Of course he did. And what exactly do you expect me to do, Inspector? I am a busy man, you know.”

“Look, I know you’re an important man so I’m not expecting anything huge but I think you owe me at least a little bit of help now and then. Besides, Anderson and Sherlock think you already know about all this but I can tell by the look on your face that you didn’t. I just want to stop kids disappearing and maybe find out whatever’s happening to them because whatever they’re going missing for it can’t be good.” He glances at his daemon, “And besides, I needed to give you your file back.”

“Indeed.”

Lestrade nods, “Well, I guess I’ll uh, leave you to it then.” He ducks away and beckons for his daemon to follow him.

As soon as they’re gone Mycroft closes his eyes. He’s angry – no, he’s _seething_. This shouldn’t be happening. Especially not behind his back. He’s had a headache all day but it’s just exploded into a full blown migraine.

Asta pads silently up beside him and he drops a hand to curl in her dark fur. It’s a childish habit he hasn’t been able to shake just yet. “So Sherlock sent him?” she murmurs, leaning in to the touch.

“Undoubtedly.”

“Varonsky had been associating with Mr Moriarty before his untimely death, had he not?”

Mycroft’s sigh turns in to a frustrated growl, “You _know_ he was.”

Asta chuckles, “Touchy, touchy. He wanted us to know he had the file then. We should bring him in.”

Mycroft hums in agreement. They’ve been putting it off for far too long.

His assistant (today her name is Ianthe) is waiting by the car for him, tapping away on her blackberry. “Anything to report?” he asks, holding the door open for his daemon to clamber in.

“Nothing of too much interest. Miss Adler has been sighted in Calcutta though; looks like you were right about your brother’s softer side but all in all, a quiet hour.”

“Good,” he slides in to the back seat. “I want James Moriarty brought in for questioning and I want to know who the hell let this file slip into his hands.”

She takes the file and nods smartly, “Yes, sir.”

As the car pulls away from the curb his phone buzzes.

_How did your date with Lestrade go? – SH_

Asta chuckles and Mycroft sighs.

_You are ridiculous – MH_

_That file was interesting though. Tut tut Mycroft, letting such things escape your grasp. – SH_

 

______________________

It’s 3am when he gets the call.

Well, it’s 3am when Ianthe leans in to his office and says, “Sir? There’s a call from Tanner from Six on the line.”

He lifts the receiver, “Put him through.” Ianthe nods and Mycroft waits for the familiar click that means he’s connected.

There’s a click, “Tanner?”

“Sir?” and Mycroft can hear Tanner’s yorkie daemon yapping in the background. “There’s been an incident.” His voice is strained and under the desk Asta rumbles nervously.

“Go on.”

“You’re aware of the Silva situation?”

“I am.”

Tanner sighs, “We’ve just received word from our agent. M’s – M’s dead, sir.”

Mycroft closes his eyes and Asta makes a soft noise. “How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes,” Tanner replies, “Sir, are you –”

Mycroft cuts him off, “Expect me at Six’s headquarters within the hour. Get in contact with Gareth Mallory and make sure he’s aware he’ll be taking over Six sooner than planned. I want double-oh-seven down there too.”

“I...” Tanner stammers a little before remembering himself. “Yes, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there's anyone still out there hey :3
> 
> for anyone who doesn't know the fsb is the russian secret service - i think that's all for this chapter?
> 
> daemon notes at the end.

**Q: Camden Lock, London.**

Bond is sprawled across his sofa, one arm slung across the back with a cigarette dangling precariously from his loose fingers. Every now and again he’ll take a drag, sigh, shuffle around a bit and fall still again. Shylah has somehow managed to stuff herself under Q’s coffee table, head on her paws, eyes closed. The only sound in the flat is the soft hum of the computers that take up what Q supposes would be a normal person’s bedroom. Q thinks there might indeed be a bed somewhere in that jungle of monitors and wires but if there is it hasn’t seen the light of day for years. Bond takes another drag. Shylah sighs.

Q watches all of this from his kitchenette while he waits for the kettle to boil. Dahy is on the kitchen counter beside him, tail twitching.

“You can’t smoke in here you know,” Q says for what must be the thirtieth time.

Bond waves a dismissive hand, “I’m an international super spy, what do you think they can do to me?” He takes another drag. Bond’s still pretending that his world hasn’t just been ripped apart by a bleach blond psychopath.

The kettle whistles. “Tea?”

“Please.”

He doesn’t bother offering milk and sugar, Q already knows that Bond takes his tea black though how he knows that is neither here or there. He pours the cups silently and Bond sits up as he brings them over. Q winces when he notices the neat little pile of cigarette ash on his fairly new carpet. _It’ll take days to get that out_ , Dahy mutters, springing up onto the back of his chair. Their landlord will kill them.

Bond accepts the cup with a nod, “I wonder if that prat has left Six yet.”

Q smirks into his tea, “You needn’t have been so rude, James.”

“Mycroft Holmes is an arrogant prick,” Bond scoffs.

“Hear, hear,” Shylah adds from under the table.

Q rather likes Mycroft, there’s something about being able to converse with someone who’s on the same intellectual playing field as you although the man does have an arrogance that clings to him like a bad smell. “M meant a lot to him too, you know.”

Q doesn’t miss the subtle shift in Bond’s expression at the mention of M’s name. (That’s when he starts to worry that he might be in trouble here – usually he has a blind spot when it comes to other people, there are a few exceptions of course – Eve, Tanner, but it took _years_ to get to that point – he’s known Bond for all of two weeks, this _never_ happens.)

“Don’t tell me you actually _believe_ that rubbish.”

“Oh, we don’t need to believe, we _know_ ,” Dahy says smugly. They hacked in to Mycroft’s files a few hours after first meeting the man (and found an encoded message congratulating him and warning that if he ever did it again he’d disappear in a very violent manner.)

“Of course you do,” Bond mutters. “We should probably head back to Six soon.”

Q thinks about pointing out the fact that Bond hasn’t slept more than two hours and has just lost possibly the most important woman in his life (and the fact that there’s a very obvious hickey on Q’s neck and Q’s not exactly a scarf person) but he knows it’s pointless. He drains his cup and stands up, “Whenever you’re ready, James.”

Bond nods.

_________________

When they get to Six’s temporary base there’s a low buzz of activity, Tanner greets them and whisks Bond away for briefing. Q follows and pesters Eve until Mossad threatens to sting Dahy.

“I’ve got about six years of paperwork to get through today, Q,” Eve bites, tapping away furiously on her keyboard. “Do you even _know_ how much work it takes to install a new head for Six?”

Q does know he looked through the procedures once when he was bored and slightly tipsy but Eve looks like she might bite off his head (and with Eve that is a very real possibility.)

“Don’t you have some absurd inventions to be getting on with?”

“They are not _absurd_ ,” Q mutters stuffily, dropping into an empty chair. Dahy springs into his lap and Q curls one hand into his fur. “And no, not as it happens. We’re on lockdown until Mallory is officially M.”

Eve doesn’t look up, “Well you better get ready, there’s something big going on. From what I’ve heard Bond’ll need all the help he can get.”

“ _Already?_ ”

“Mm,” she nods. “No rest for the legally ordained wicked.”

“Any idea of where he’ll be going?”

“Uh, Russia I think,” the laptop bleeps and Eve swears, “ _For God’s sake._ Siberia maybe.”

Q nods and sits back. He’s been working on a few things for colder climates – a lighter coat that would still keep one warm, snowshoes with hidden explosives and knives, a smaller alternative for satellite phones that wouldn’t – the door to Mallory’s office swings open derailing Q’s train of thought. Mycroft strides out looking positively homicidal. His daemon pads beside him, silent and dark. His cool eyes sweep across the room and Q knows the minute Mycroft’s eyes flicker over him that the older man sees everything that transpired between him and James last night.

Mycroft smirks a little, “Q, Miss Moneypenny,” he greets.

“Mycroft,” Q replies just as Eve nods, “Sir.”

“Perhaps you should return to Q branch, Q, we’re not paying you a six figure salary to lounge around bother Miss Moneypenny,” he says with more bite than necessary. James must have been exceptionally irritating.

Q nods, “Yes sir.” And Mycroft strides out without a backward glance.

“ _Well,_ ” Dahy mutters, flicking his tail in annoyance, “There was no need to be so _rude_ about it.”

Eve meanwhile is glaring at him, “You get a _six figure salary_?”

Q blinks, “Yes? Why? What do you get?”

Mossad buzzes on her shoulder angrily. “A lot less than _that_.”

Q can’t think of anything to say that won’t result in some kind of bodily harm so instead he glances after Mycroft and says, “He actually had his daemon with him, he must be very upset.”

Eve stares at him for a while, probably trying to decide whether to steer the conversation back to the problem of their wage gap and then nods, “Wait until you’re briefed about Bond’s next mission.”

_________________

**John Watson: 221B Baker Street**

“The Gobblers?” John repeats watching Sherlock fling books of their shelf. He’s been at it for almost an hour, John didn’t even know they _had_ that many books. On the buried coffee table Sherlock’s phone buzzes insistently. “As in the scary kids story? Those Gobblers? Lines have got to be drawn somewhere Sherlock.”

Sherlock glances up at him as he tosses another book aside, “Oh, John. So naive.”

John exchanges a look with his daemon. “At least he’s not bored,” Amynta shrugs.

“This isn’t another one of those solar system things is it? You haven’t deleted the part where fairytales didn’t actually happen? And will you _please_ answer your phone?”

Sherlock doesn’t even blink (nor does he answer the phone), “Come now, John. Even you must know that it’s a commonly held belief that most folktales had at least some factual basis and – _AHA!_ ” He breaks off and raises the book he’s holding triumphantly over his head before tossing it haphazardly in John’s direction.

John manages to catch it before it destroys their one remaining lamp (John won’t go into what happened to the others.) “ _Unsolved Mysteries of Britain and Ireland_ ,” he reads. It had been a Christmas present from Harry once she found out he was living with a detective. He’d never even opened it. Amy stands, rests her front paws on his lap and noses the book open. The contents page is covered in Sherlock’s messy cursive and John snorts, “You actually read this?”

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, sorting through the case files sprawled across their kitchen counters, “Page 34.”

“ _The General Oblation Board_ ,” Amy reads.

“Otherwise known as the Gobblers,” John mutters, briefly scanning the pages. “This doesn’t tell me anything I didn’t learn from playground rhymes.” Sherlock grins and drops a pile of case files into his lap. “These are the missing kid’s files; I thought you told Lestrade you weren’t interested?”

Sherlock tugs on his coat, “No, I merely told him that government conspiracies were more my brother’s area of expertise.”

“You sent him to Mycroft?”

“Yes,” he crosses the room and hands John another file. “That was found buried alongside the body of one Alexei Varonsky, ex FSB and according to the homeless network last working with our good friend Mr Moriarty.”

John frowns, “This is eyes only, how on earth did it get out?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Sherlock glances to his daemon, curled up on one of the emptier bookshelves, and the little fox obediently trots over to him. “It’s also probably what my idiot brother has been phoning about all morning,” he adds, glaring at the still buzzing phone. “Coming?” he calls, thundering down the stairs.

Amy stands and stretches, “Come on, we could use a good walk.”

John sighs, “You realise he’ll just drag us around London in the rain and probably won’t actually tell us anything until after he’s spent all my money on cab fare?”

His daemon chuckles, “So?” just as Sherlock shouts, “Come on, John!”

John stands wearily (he steadfastly _refuses_ to appear excited – he’s supposed to be annoyed with Sherlock for experimenting on the brand new laptop John had bought – but Amynta’s wagging tail gives him away.)

His phone buzzes as he heads out to join Sherlock and he glances at it quickly; _john, tell sherlock to answer his phone. it’s important – MH_

_________________

**Ros Myers: Houses of Parliament**

Kadmos swishes his tail and bares his teeth at the woman’s chameleon daemon. “Don’t be such a yob,” Ros chastises.

He leaps back to her side with liquid fluidity, “I’m _bored_.”

Ros is sympathetic. They’ve been waiting in this tiny room for almost an hour; Ros isn’t even entirely sure why she’s here. (Well she is – it’s because Harry’s nervous, actually _nervous_ , about meeting Mycroft Holmes and Ros only knows half the story but she’s not going to point that out because they both have they’re dignity.) Harry is beside her, doing a good impression of a man who isn’t at all unnerved by this tiny room and the strange secretary ( _Minerva,_ she introduced herself, all fake smiles and warm touches, _I’m Mr Holmes’ assistant._ )

Ros has never actually met Mycroft Holmes, she’s heard a lot about him. Impressions seem to vary from _terrifying_ to _useless_ and from what she can tell no one actually knows what his job _is_. Her father had met him, rather her father had known his father, she has vague memories of an imposing man with a harpy eagle daemon laughing a little too loudly at a party but apart from that... Kadmos hadn’t liked Siger Holmes she remembered that much.

“Will you stop pacing?” Medeia mutters, glaring at Kad. She’s sitting a little too rigidly by Harry’s side, the only sign that she and her human are nervous at all.

The leopard makes a show of throwing himself onto the floor and curling up at Ros’ feet, “Happy now?” he asks scathingly. Kad has never been as good at disguising his emotion as Ros has. It’s a problem. They’re working on it. “You could have just left me on the Grid,” he whines. “At least I’d be _useful_ there.”

“You had to come,” Harry mutters, “It’s one of Mycroft’s _things_.”

So Harry doesn’t hold Mycroft in high esteem – it’s good to know, Harry’s a good judge of character. Usually anyway. Kad sighs and rolls onto his back.

Luckily they don’t have much longer to wait.

“You can go in now,” ‘Minerva’ says, without looking up from her laptop. As far as Ros can tell ‘Minerva’ hasn’t been given any sign from Mycroft whatsoever and she has the distinct impression that they’ve been waiting around for no reason. _And you told me off for upsetting her daemon,_ Kad teases.

_Oh, yes, her daemon looked **terrified.**_

Kad knocks her with his tail, rather harder than necessary. _Sarcasm will get you nowhere._ _________________

**Lucas North: Undisclosed Location, North London.**

Lucas still can’t sleep.

It’s been six months since Russia and he still can’t sleep.

“Of course you can’t sleep,” Eris drawls from her position by the window. She won’t touch him anymore – he understands why. For most of his eight year imprisonment they were kept separate (he knows what they did to her though, he felt every one of their tortures.)

The glowing numbers on his bedside clock tell him its 4am. He sighs and gives up, swinging himself out of bed. “It’s been months.” He mutters, tugging at his hair. “I should be able to sleep by now.”

Eris hums noncommittally, “Harry’s meeting with Mycroft today, do you think it was about what we saw in Russia?”

Lucas frowns at her, “Why would they bring that up now?”

“I overheard Medeia talking to Kadmos about a file they found with an ex-FSB officer. It was about the Bolvanger project.”

“And you were planning to tell me this when?”

Eris fixes him with look of mild amusement, “You never want to talk to me. Why should I talk to you?” There’s an undercurrent of a snarl to her words and just the barest hint of teeth.

“Eris,” Lucas murmurs. He doesn’t need this right now. He doesn’t need a daemon that hates him as much as he hates himself. He crosses the room to the window and reaches for her but she shifts away from his hand. “Keziah,” he tries.

She does snarl at that, “Don’t call me that _John_.”

Lucas lets his hand fall back to his side.

\----------------------

Father’s room turned out to be rather dull. There were a few books on Daemonology that Sherlock would have liked to read, a couple of old government files about something called the General Oblation Board and rather terrifyingly a selection of photographs of he and Mycroft with Mother. But overall nothing too interesting.

“Sherlock,” Bric hissed from a shelf above Father’s desk. “You’ve got to look at this!” He flickered from polecat to dragonfly and zippped down to land on his shoulder, “The files up there, they’re –” he broke off, flickering in to a mouse and twitching his ears. “Someone’s coming!”

Sherlock swore and glanced around the room, “The cupboard? We can sneak out when he leaves?”

“What if he **doesn’t** leave?”

Sherlock wavered and the door knob started to rattle, “We’ve slept in worse places!” he blurted, yanking open the door of the wardrobe and clambering in to the forest of old coats and mothballs. Bric flickered into a moth, “If he looks in here...”

“Shush, Bric!”

By now his father had entered the room and he wasn’t alone. Mycroft trailed in after him, one hand curled in Asta’s ruff as usual. His father sat down at the desk, pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey while Mycroft squirmed.

“When did she settle?” Siger asked.

Bric’s wings brushed against Sherlock’s cheek, **why is he so interested in our daemons?**

“When I was twelve, I thought mother had written – ”

Siger cut him off, “I wasn’t asking about your mother’s correspondence, I was asking when your daemon settled.” On his shoulder the harpy eagle chuckled.

Mycroft was gnawing at his bottom lip. “I – uh, on my birthday. She was settled when I woke up.”

Siger nodded thoughtfully, “A panther. Large, powerful, solitary. A good daemon for a Holmes. Do you think it fitting?”

Mycroft’s fingers tightened in his daemons dark fur. “I suppose so, yes.”

Siger’s lip curled, “And I suppose you intend to follow your mother into the government, yes?”

Mycroft blinked, “I thought you worked for the government as well.”

“ **No,** the agency I work for may be partly sponsored by the government but it is, nonetheless, separate.” He leant back in his chair and observed his older son over the rim of his glass. “Let’s talk about your brother.”

Mycroft wriggled a little and his eyes flickered towards the cupboard. **He knows,** Bric hissed. Sherlock raised a hand to quiet him. Mycroft licked his lips, eyes back on their father, “What about him?”

“He is as intelligent as you, yes? Just less adept at hiding it.”

“Yes.”

“And he is a very wilful boy, is he not? Rebellious?”

Mycroft nodded.

“What do you think his daemon will settle as?”

Mycroft looked taken aback, “I don’t... He doesn’t stay as anything for long. But he’s only young.”

(On his shoulder Bric turned into a lemur.)

“And a male daemon,” Siger took another sip, “Do you know we’re no closer to finding out why some people have same sex daemons? Even with all our modern technology we’re still no closer to solving the mysteries of our own companions. That, Mycroft, is what I do. I am the head of a team devoted to exploring the nature of daemons.”

 **That’s what the files were,** Bric whispered. **They were profiles of children’s daemons.**

“Shh!”

Mycroft shifted and Asta growled a little, low in her throat. “You want to experiment on Sherlock.” He said slowly.

Bric clung tighter to his shoulder, “What?” he hissed.

“I merely think it would be beneficial for all of us if he came to our facility for a few weeks.”

“No. Mother won’t let you.”

Siger leant forward, a cruel smile playing across his lips. “And you think she can stop me, do you? Don’t forget, boy, that I have just as much right to you two as your mother does.”

Mycroft set his jaw and Asta snarled at his side, “ **I** won’t let you.”

At that Siger laughed, “Maybe you are a Holmes after all,” he stood and Mycroft took a step back (for one terrifying minute Sherlock thought their father might hit him, smack some sense into him like he had threatened to do earlier) but the door swung open and the maid hovered nervously, “Phone call for you Mr Holmes, sir.”

Siger glanced from Mycroft to the maid before sighing, “I’ll take it in the lounge.” And leaving the room.

Mycroft made beeline for the cupboard as soon as their father had left, “What the bloody hell are you playing at, Sherlock?” he hissed, throwing open the door.

“I didn’t-” Sherlock stammered (Bric flickered into a wolf, pressed against him and Sherlock steadied himself.) “What does father want with me?”

Mycroft swallowed and looked away. “You don’t want to know.”

“Don’t you think I have a right to?” because he **did**. Who was Mycroft to lie to him? Maybe Father’s experiments wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe Mycroft was just jealous Father hadn’t asked him.“Tell me, Mycroft.” He demanded.

His brother shook his head, “No, now get out of here. If father catches you, he’ll –” there was a tremor in Mycroft’s voice that Sherlock had never heard before, it was unsettling and his stomach began twisting itself into knots. It was easier to believe Mycroft was jealous. Jealous, not terrified.

“Not until you tell me what he wants!”

“SHERLOCK!” Mycroft snapped and Sherlock flinched, Mycroft never, **never** raised his voice. “Do what I say.” And Asta roared, baring rows of dagger like teeth.

“ **Fine** ,” Sherlock growled back, stomping out of the room. “But if Father asks to take me somewhere I’m going with him!”

(Later Bric was perched on his bedside as a hawk and he said, “Father wouldn’t hurt us, would he?”

Sherlock looked at his daemon for a long time. He thought about Mycroft and Asta and Siger’s harpy eagle and her piercing eyes and harsh laugh. “No,” he said, entirely uncertainly. “No, I don’t suspect he would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **James and Shylah:** a black german shepard, celtic, loyal/strong
> 
>  **Q and Dahy:** (day-he) an oncilla, Irish, quick/capable
> 
>  **Eve and Mossad:** a tarantula hawk, the mossad is the isreali intelligence force (yeah idk)
> 
>  **Ros and Kadmos:** a leopard, from the east [no relevance :')]
> 
>  **John and Amynta:** an australian cattle dog, greek, defender

**Author's Note:**

>  **Sherlock & Briccrui:** settles as a fennec fox. Briccrui (Brick-ru) which means bitter tongued is a trickster figure in Irish mythology
> 
>  **Mycroft & Asta:** a panther, old norse, means beautiful god.
> 
>  **Lestrade & Nidia:** a silver fox, latin, means nest (idk)
> 
>  **Harry & Medeia:** a mongrel, greek, cunning.
> 
>  **Lucas & Eris: ** timber wolf, greek, strife.
> 
>  **Tanner & Sacha:** a yorkie, french, defender of man kind


End file.
